


Safe in Our Room(At the End of the World)

by serenelystrange



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Complete, Fluff, Happy Ending, M/M, Post canon, SO MUCH FLUFF, and beginning and middle let's be honest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-11
Updated: 2017-12-11
Packaged: 2019-02-13 11:21:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12982977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/serenelystrange/pseuds/serenelystrange
Summary: Our favorite dumb asses finally realize they love each other, and fluff ensues! Contrary to the title, no worlds end in this fic!Written for froggydarren as part of the Sterek Secret Santa exchange 2017!





	Safe in Our Room(At the End of the World)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [froggydarren](https://archiveofourown.org/users/froggydarren/gifts).



.

“Where were you approximately 11 months ago, Mr. Hale?”

Derek just rolls his eyes at the question that’s asked before he can even say hello as he picks up the phone.

“Hello to you, too, Stiles,” he says. “And I’m pretty sure 11 months ago, we were in Chile hunting down those Tinkerbell rejects. I know you remember that whole mess.”

Stiles laughs, no doubt remembering how they’d had to rescue Liam from a pack of honest-to-god sparkling fairies. Mean ones.

“Oh man,” he says, “that was the best. The look on his face!”

“So why the Agent Voice?” Derek asks, “the FBI doesn’t want to frame me for more murders I didn’t commit, do they?”

“I met this baby,” Stiles answers, “ok, this baby and his mom. And it had your eyebrows! Like… your exact, glorious and angry eyebrows! With the scowl to match.”

It’s Derek turn to laugh, at the sheer ridiculousness of Stiles and his everything.

“I didn’t impregnate anybody 11 months ago,” he says. “Or ever,” he adds, because he knows that would be the next question out of Stiles’ mouth.

“He bit my fingers!” Stiles exclaims, “are you sure you’re not related?”

“Why were your fingers near his mouth?” Derek counters, taking a moment to wonder how Stiles even got himself into this situation.

“Because his cheeks were so squishable!” Stiles huffs, “obviously.”

“Obviously,” Derek agrees, smiling into the empty room despite himself.

“You’ll be there for Christmas, right?” Stiles asks suddenly, switching topics so fast that it would have made Derek’s head spin if he hadn’t grown so used to it over the years.

“Well,” Derek says, “I did just build a brand new house, I should probably prepare for all of you inevitably trashing it.”

For a long, beautiful moment, Stiles is absolutely silent. Derek snickers to himself, he does so love when he can render Stiles speechless.

“YOU BOUGHT A HOUSE??” Stiles screeches a moment later.

“Built a house,” Derek corrects.

“Built a house,” Stiles parrots, before his indignation rises again. “And you didn’t tell me?!”

“Yup,” Derek says, because honestly, it’s just too easy to rile Stiles up.

“You’re such an ass,” Stiles says, grumbling to himself about stupid werewolves and their stupid excellent secret-keeping skills.

“Yup,” Derek agrees.

“Does everyone else know?” Stiles asks, once he’s gotten his hissy fit out.

“Nobody else knows,” Derek says. “Well, except Cora. But I wanted her blessing before I tore down the old house for good.”

“Jesus, Der,” Stiles sighs, and Derek can hear the catch in his voice. “That’s really cool, man. I bet it’s really nice.”

“You’ll see soon enough,” Derek says, “unless you aren’t going to be home for Christmas?”

“You just try and keep me away, buddy,” Stiles says, laughing again. “Scott and Mel have promised me as much pie as I can fit in my stomach. I’m not missing that.”

“They do make really good pie,” Derek agrees.

“Yeah,” Stiles says, “Shit! I gotta get going, but I’ll talk to you later?”

“I’ll be here,” Derek says, shaking his head in amusement when the phone beeps to tell him Stiles has already disconnected.

.

.

“That your boyfriend again, Stilinski?”

Stiles sticks his tongue out at his partner, resolutely ignoring the blush he can feel spreading across his cheeks.

“Shut it, Torres,” he says. “You know damn well that I don’t have a boyfriend. Or a girlfriend. It’s just me and Lettie Lefty, as usual.”

“Well maybe if you didn’t _name your jerking-off hand_ , more people would be interested in you,” Torres teases, reaching out to ruffle Stiles’ hair purely because she knows it bugs him.

“I have a gun, woman,” he warns, swatting at her hand ineffectively.

“This is the FBI,” she says slowly, swatting his hand back, “we all have guns.”

“Pfft,” Stiles says, shrugging, “you and your logic.”

“Kept you alive this past year, hasn’t it?” Torres says, giving Stiles’ shoulder a little push as they head across the parking lot to their agency car.

Stiles just rolls his eyes and ignores her as gets into the car.

It’s not until they’re well on their way to the assignment that Torres speaks again.

“Does he know you’re in love with him?” she asks, casually, eyes still trained on the road like the responsible driver she is, as if she hasn’t just tipped Stiles’ entire world upside down.

“What!” Stiles exclaims, “I’m not…what are you even talking… Derek doesn’t even like… I don’t even!… I mean…I… he…we…what?”

Torres manages to not burst into laughter, but just barely.

“So, that’s a no, then,” she says. “Do _you_ know that you’re in love with him?”

“I am not in love with him!” Stiles says, vehemently, but the words sound wrong even as he’s saying them.

Torres pulls over to park as they arrive at the scene, finally turning to look at Stiles again, cringing when she sees the pure panic splayed all over her partner’s face.

“Oh god, you really didn’t know,” she says, “I’m sorry! Are you ok? Your eyes are like… disturbingly wide right now.”

“I’m just reevaluating every interaction I’ve ever had in my entire life,” Stiles says, chest heaving as he tries to breathe. “No big deal.”

“It’s kind of a big deal,” Torres says, “but hey, it’s cool! We’ll figure it out! Just breathe with me, ok?”

She grabs Stiles hands and wraps his fingers around her wrists, doing the same to his and taking a deep breath.

“Count with me,” she says. “Ten, Mississippi, nine Mississippi, eight Mississippi…”

“Seven Mississippi, six Mississippi,” Stiles continues after a long moment, breathing through it until his heart-rate matches the one he feels under his fingers.

.

“Well, that was embarrassing,” he says once he’s calmed down enough that Torres is no longer worried about him passing out.

“Nah,” she says, “that was nothing. Remember when you literally walked in on me peeing in the bathtub because I was too drunk to get out of my dress and use the toilet?”

Stiles barks out a laugh at that, and Torres finally releases his wrists with a final soothing squeeze.

“You were White Girl Wasted,” he agrees, still chuckling.

“Exactly,” she says. “And if that didn’t ruin this, a panic attach here and there definitely isn’t going to.”

“You’re not so bad, Torres,” Stiles says, punching her lightly in the arm. “Come on, we should go do our jobs before they send someone to find out why we’re still sitting here.”

“Roger that, partner,” she says, giving him a mock salute before pushing open her door to start their sure to be long day.

.

.

Scott picks him up from the airport in the Jeep, which is somehow still running, and Stiles spends a good ten minutes patting various parts of her soothingly.

“I’ve missed you, baby,” he says, stroking the dashboard gently.

“Aww,” Scott says, “I’ve missed you too, snookums.”

Stiles gives him the finger without looking up, and Scott just laughs.

“Come on,” he says, tossing Stiles’ bag in the back. “Let’s get this Christmas thing going.”

“Tidings of comfort and joy, bitches!” Stiles agrees, a little too emphatically if he’s being honest. Traveling always makes him loopy.

“Maybe a nap, first,” Scott says, laughing.

“You’re the best,” Stiles says, sighing and settling his head against the passenger side window as they start the drive home.

.

.

Stiles wakes up slowly, the smell of black coffee tickling his nose until he opens his eyes.

His bedroom hasn’t changed over the last few years that he’s been with the FBI, except that it’s less decorated now, and a little dusty and stuffy from being closed up for months on end while he’s gone. When he concentrates, he can hear the familiar sounds of his dad puttering down in the kitchen, no doubt drinking the coffee he’s just brewed and eating something that Stiles would scold him for if it wasn’t Christmas day.

He stumbles down the stairs and into the living-room, still half asleep, and stops dead in his tracks at what he sees.

“Daaad,” he calls out, still staring. “Did you do this?”

John comes in behind him, chuckling as he wraps an arm around Stiles’ shoulder in a half-hug.

“Not me, son,” he says, pausing dramatically under the guise of taking a long sip from his coffee mug. “This was all Scott and Derek. Lydia supervised.”

Stiles laughs, because of course she did.

“It looks amazing,” he says, taking in the sight of the lavishly decorated Christmas tree that’s spread out across the entire far corner of the room.

“They missed you, kiddo,” his dad says. “It looks pretty nice though, huh? Almost as good as your mom used to make it.”

Stiles blinks against the tears welling in his eyes at the strain in his father’s voice.

“Almost,” he agrees, and they stand for a moment to collect themselves.

“Go get dressed,” John says finally. “We don’t want to miss all that pie.”

And that, Stiles absolutely will not argue with.

.

.

Melissa greets them at the door with strong hugs, and Stiles isn’t ashamed at how much he melts into it. Scott and Malia are in the kitchen, managing several pots and pans in a controlled chaos that Stiles is not going to get in the way of. Melissa ushers them in and immediately pulls the Sheriff into the other room to have some of her fancy roast coffee and let the younger folks work until they inevitably start squabbling and she has to come back and get things back in order. She gives it thirty minutes, tops.

That leaves Stiles standing awkwardly in the doorway for a moment until he spots Derek sitting on the couch, flipping through an Ikea magazine and absently petting Melissa’s fluffy grey cat, Marmalade.

“I didn’t know Ikea still had catalogs,” Stiles says, appreciating the fact that Derek jumps a little at his voice, humoring him as if he didn’t know he was there the moment they pulled up in his dad’s cruiser.

“Stiles,” Derek says, looking up to smile at him in greeting.

“Wow,” Stiles says, before he can stop himself. Because it’s been years and hundreds of life-threatening situations, but he’s literally never prepared for the full effect of Derek’s smile when it’s directed at him.

Derek just laughs, and closes the catalog and puts it back neatly on the table.

He gestures at the rest of the couch for Stiles to sit down. “Tell me about FBI life. Catch me up.”

So Stiles sits, and he does.

.

.

The celebrating and eating goes well into the evening, until they’re all full and sleepy Stiles wonders how he and his dad are even going to get home without either of them falling asleep at the wheel.

The answer comes when his dad reappears dressed in sweats and telling him he’s going to crash in the spare room for the night. Stiles knows for a fact that those sweats are his dad’s own, that have lived in the dresser by his bed for the last ten years. And he also knows that Melissa’s spare room is full of boxes and a bed without sheets, definitely not made up for company. He sends Scott a questioning look from across the room, receiving an amused look that promises they’ll talk about it later when their parents aren’t right there and trying to subtle. He shakes his head, deciding to deal with it all later after he’s slept all the sleep. And maybe had some more pie.

.

“I’ll give you a ride home,” Derek offers, when he realizes Scott and Malia are already headed to bed.

“Thanks,” Stiles says, getting up from his position on the couch to stretch and pull his jacket on.

The air is colder than he expects when they get outside, biting into his cheeks and waking him up as they walk towards the Camaro.

“Actually,” he says, once they’re settled into the car. “I want to see your new house.” “If that’s ok,” he adds, belatedly.

“More than,” Derek says, and Stiles thanks all the deities in the universe that he keeps his cool and doesn’t squeal at that answer.

.

.

The house is big, and barely decorated besides some sparse furniture a few throw pillows, but Stiles is immediately charmed.

“It’s really nice,” he says, gesturing around at the general lack of gloom and doom and blood-of-their-enemies.

“I’ll show you around,” Derek says, grabbing Stiles’ arm gently and leading him down the hall.

He points out the kitchen and the downstairs bathroom before leading him upstairs, fingers still burning into Stiles’ arm pleasantly.

“My room,” he points down the hall. “This one is mainly for Scott, or whoever needs it” he says about the one they’re next to. “Cora,” he says, pointing at the room in the middle, which is already adorned with a Knock First or Die sign that Stiles snickers at.

“And that one,” Derek says, pausing and pointing to the room next to his own, “is yours. If you want it, I mean.”

“Definitely,” Stiles says, and Derek’s grip stutters on his arm.

“I look forward to your calls every week,” Derek says, after a long pause. “at first it was just a pack thing, wanting to make sure you were safe…”

Stiles turns to face him, sliding his arm back so that Derek is holding his hand instead of his arm, and he squeezes their fingers together gently.

“At first?” he prompts.

Derek ducks his head slightly in embarrassment.

“I realized it was more than that when Malia mentioned that you might stay in D.C. indefinitely, and I almost snarled at her for even suggesting it.”

Stiles can’t help but shake his head and laugh at that.

“Not indefinitely,” he says. “That was never the plan.”

“What was the plan?” Derek asks, stepping closer into Stiles’ space until their only inches from each other, leaning against the wall outside the still-empty bedroom.

“Well, initially, it was to marry Lydia and get a picket fence and 2.5 kids and maybe a dog,” Stiles says, smirking.

“And now?” Derek asks.

“Now I think…maybe the dog is enough for me,” Stiles says, so sincerely that it takes a few seconds for Derek to realize he should be offended.

“You’re such an ass,” Derek says, but his hand is already curled into Stiles’ shirt, just waiting for the signal.

“Yup,” Stiles says, grinning wide before meeting Derek halfway into their first kiss.

It’s awkward and unpracticed and absolutely perfect.

“I’m not sure I’ll need that room after all,” Stiles says, heart beating so wildly even he can hear it.

“Make any more dog jokes, and you will,” Derek warns him.

“You knew what you were signing up for!” Stiles says, pushing Derek backwards towards his own room, pushing him against the closed door.

“Shut up,” Derek says, but he turns the doorknob, kicks the door shut after they’re inside, and lets Stiles push him all the way into the room until the back of his thighs hit the mattress.

“Make me,” Stiles replies, because he’s always wanted to have this exact conversation.

Derek just smirks at him and does just that.

.

The End

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
